


An Off-Center Portrait

by vespirus



Series: Mixed Media [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Autism, Autistic Character, Echolalia, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infodumping, Stimming, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9624881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vespirus/pseuds/vespirus
Summary: He kept himself to himself and he didn’t see a problem with that. Everyone else seemed to, but he and everyone else had never really seen eye to eye on most things. By now he’s resigned himself to the role of an eccentric loner and doesn’t bother trying to find explanations for what he does, either for himself or for anyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lads back at it again with another trans + autistic character fic b/c thats all i really care to write about anymore. this is pretty much just a dump of vignettes without much story but some stuff'll happen in the next chapter at least.. im writing this pretty disjointedly but i dont think there should be much more than another chapter? but if u have any ideas for stuff to happen feel free to comment tbh..! either way, pls enjoy! :)
> 
> warning for some self harm talked about but not for very long, also tiny mention of menstruation

He kept himself to himself and he didn’t see a problem with that. Everyone else seemed to, but he and everyone else had never really seen eye to eye on most things. By now he’s resigned himself to the role of an eccentric loner and doesn’t bother trying to find explanations for what he does, either for himself or for anyone else.

He stays in his camper most of the time. He doesn’t like staying on the base too long, something about it feels  _ wrong  _ and  _ bad _ . The concrete and wood are cold and unwelcoming, the hallways too echoing, the air too stale. His van is everything he could want in a home: small, organized, mobile, easy to maintain, and most importantly it’s  _ his _ and his alone.

A sacred space where he chose what comes in and what goes out. He didn’t know how the rest of them work things out with each other in regards to privacy and personal space back on the base but he didn’t care to learn. He’ll stick with what he knows (thank you very much) and that’s his boxed in bed and kitchenette and closet and shelves stacked with clothes and records and books.

He’s had people call it “confining”, “tiny”, “like prison”, and once from spy “almost as inhospitable as the land you crawled out off”. They can think what they like. It’s cozy. Safe.

Spy was always on him about his hygiene, but Spy’s a huge priss and is always going to find something to complain about, so Sniper shrugs it off. He would admit (to himself, in his head, when no one’s around) that he does have a problem, but he doesn’t really know how to fix it. So he just leaves it. Lives with it.

What’s he supposed to do when sometimes he just can’t make himself do anything? When he’s sitting on his bed, book open on his lap, staring into space. When he knows that he desperately needs to get up, needs to take a shower and shave and wash his clothes and clean his dishes, but no amount of internal yelling and thrashing will get him to move from his seat. The upside at least is he doesn’t have to be near people enough for them to notice his on and off relationship with self care.

He’s a mess and he knew it. He wore baggy worn clothes because they’re soft and the only thing he feels comfortable in anymore. He couldn’t stand coffee because the texture and taste is  _ disgusting _ but he drinks it anyway to keep himself focused and alert. He kept his belt cinched too tight and his gloves a bit too small because he likes the way they press on him. Sometimes he didn’t even get out of bed and later said his van broke down rather than try to explain that his brain and body just didn’t want to cooperate.

* * *

His first check-in with Medic had been not great. Having to explain his predicament while stumbling over words and not looking the doctor in the face. At least he had wrote up what he should say before he went in, otherwise it would’ve been a  _ complete _ disaster.

As it was he managed to rattle off the explanation and answer what he figured the doctor would ask (Yes he had stubble, it was a side effect of the Australium. Yes he still had a “time of the month”. No he was not interested in any freaky surgery.) and then wrangle a promise of doctor-patient confidentiality out of him (a real one, under the threat of a bullet through his head and all his pretty little doves).

Medic was surprisingly professional about it, nodding and seeming like he already had encountered such a situation before. Maybe one of the other team members? No, best not get his hopes up. Sniper was glad to have the check-in over with. Pleasantly surprised by how it went, in all honesty. Though he didn’t enjoy Medic hounding him about his binding habits. He’d shelled out on a bloody nice binder, of course he was going to wear it at all opportunities. Even if it was hell on his back in the field. “Eight hours” his foot. But better to hide away after his eight hours were up rather than try and face whatever consequences the doctor would cook up for him if he went back on his promises.

* * *

He had a system for how his days go down.

Wake up to his alarm, pound it quiet, lay in bed for a few moments and consider his life choices.

Get up, get dressed, get as ready for the day as he’ll ever be. Scratch at his stubble, paw his hair into a semblance of order, wiggle into his binder, check himself in the mirror before leaving to make sure everything’s sorted.

Then he’ll either head to the base for the morning or stick around his van for a while or take a walk. Either way, he ends up at the base an hour or so before the day really begins.

Get breakfast however he can find it, snag a cup of coffee, settle in at his usual seat at the table. He likes the bare wooden chairs more than the sofas in the mornings; the sharpness and angles of the uncomfortable seat won’t let him doze off.

Sometimes things will get in the way of this routine, though. Those are always real shitty days. The others learn quick not to try and go find him before he’s good and ready to show up at the base (a few warning shots did the trick). Once the message seems to get across, Sniper sews up the holes he shot in Scout’s hat and makes sure to slot off an evening every couple weeks to get royally smashed with Demo. They both seem to appreciate the gesture, more or less. And Sniper finds himself enjoying the evenings he spends drinking himself into oblivion with someone he (somewhat) trusts by his side.

* * *

“Hold still. Hold still. Hold still. Hold still. Hold still. H--”

“Do you really think that’s going to work?”

An exasperated voice from right behind him made Sniper start, his knuckles white where he gripped the rifle. A breezy laugh in his ear. Goddamn spies. He shifted, swallowing and fixing his hold on his rifle, and waited for the knife to come. Tried to think of how he could turn this to his advantage. He could see the BLU Spy behind him in the reflection of his glasses, and he twitched to get a better look. The Spy smirked at him, obviously clued into his game.

“Hold still,” the Spy drawled mockingly, and with a flash of pain he’s back to respawn.

* * *

Okay, maybe sometimes he let his shot recoil hit him when he could’ve avoided it. Maybe sometimes he cut his finger on the trigger. Maybe sometimes he bit down his nails until they bled. Maybe sometimes he ended up with marks from his own teeth up and down his arms. Maybe sometimes it was an accident, maybe sometimes he did it on purpose, and maybe sometimes he didn’t even realize it happened or didn’t know why.

It wasn’t anyone’s  _ business _ .

* * *

Sure he had sleeping problems. Who on the base didn’t? Sniper felt safe saying not a man in their crew was able to get a solid night’s rest every day of the week. And yet, Medic insisted that on interfering after catching Sniper on one of Sniper’s midnight walkabouts.

“It’s for your own good,” the doctor insisted as he shook out a couple pills from a bottle. Handing them to Sniper he instructed him to take one every time he felt he couldn’t sleep, and a second one if he still couldn’t in an hour. Sniper nodded and hmm’d in all the right places, took the pills, and left to his camper.

He shook the pills back into the bottle, stuck the bottle on one of his higher shelves, and didn’t touch it again. He didn’t go for midnight walks anymore, though. (At least, not where he figured Medic would see him.)

* * *

“Why do’yeh wear your sunglasses inside all the time? Are you  _ tryin’  _ to look like an asshole?”

He looked up at Scout at the declaration. Sniper had been seated at the common room table reading a book and minding his own business. He occasionally crawled back into the base to for leisure activities just to have another human in his presence, even if he didn’t want to interact. He had been quietly reading and soaking up the energy of the room but it seemed his silent time was over. He stuck a finger into the book so he wouldn’t lose his place and mulled over the question.

“Prescription.” He muttered. He looked back down at his book but doubted the conversation would end there. With Scout it never seemed to be that easy.

“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘prescription’? You need those?” He slapped the table and laughed loudly, and if Sniper were a lesser man he would’ve flinched. As it was he didn’t outwardly respond, though he bit down on his tongue at the loud noises. “A sniper with glasses! That’s a laugh.” Sniper went back to reading his book as Scout chuckled to himself over his discovery.

* * *

After the midnight walk and subsequent Quiet Talk from Medic, the last thing he wanted to do was get back on the doctor’s radar. Sure he trusted him to heal up cuts (especially with that medigun of his) but there was no telling what would be on his inside after the skin stitched back together. Sniper just held onto the thought that surely (hopefully) Medic wouldn’t experiment on someone on his own team. Thankfully he didn’t run into the doctor that much anyway as a support fighter, and he just made sure to slink around him when he went to hang out at the base.

Speak of the devil though, since as soon as he figured he was in the clear from any sort of follow-up, Medic poked his nose into Sniper’s business yet again during a meal with the team.

Sniper had abstained from the meal (Engie had whipped up some sort of breaded meat and while the thought was nice, what a horrific texture. Just the thought made Sniper recoil in disgust. Sniper was no stranger to going hungry though, he often forgot to eat either way. He would be fine.) and no one seemed to notice or care. Until Medic brought it up. Of course.

“Herr Sniper, why don’t you grab a plate?”

He shrugged one shoulder, not sure what he could say that would be an acceptable excuse. Now Engie was looking at him and Spy too and  _ fuck _ .

“Not hungry. Thanks, though.” He muttered, tipping his hat forward and tapping the brim anxiously. He could practically feel Medic and Spy narrow their eyes in suspicion. He didn’t want this, he just wanted to be a part of the team. This was too much. He should leave, but then that would just make things worse?

He took a long sip of his disgusting coffee and did his best to stick it out for the rest of the night before he could safely slink back to the safety of his camper.

* * *

“Just a minute.”

Sniper was tugged back by the collar, and he glanced back to see Spy’s annoyed expression. He had tried to slink out of yet another one of Spy’s pre-mission pep talk, but apparently the frenchie wasn’t having any of it. Spy’s expression changed and he looked somewhere around confused as he pulled his hand out of Sniper’s shirt collar.

“No tags?” Spy questioned. Sniper didn’t get why that was so interesting. He shrugged, keeping his eyes trained on Spy’s gloves.

“Scratchy.” He said simply, and Spy didn’t press any further, though he seemed to be working out some sort of puzzle. Sniper didn’t want any part of Spy’s conniving, and left with a duck of his head to avoid any other shirt grabbing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and heres the second bit! :) this is all im going to write for now, so im marking it as complete. i might add more later if i get #inspired or from prompts or somethin maybe (so feel free to comment w somethin ud maybe like to see!). thanks for readin! <3 EDIT: added a picture i drew of one part!

“Yo, Snipes!” Scout’s voice bounced over the dead grass to where Sniper was lounging in a folding deck chair by his van. He poked up his hat to see Scout jogging over. It was a hot day, up in the Fahrenheit hundreds, and when he’d came in for breakfast that morning most of the team had been complaining about losing a vacation day to the heat. Sniper liked it though, had set up outside his van with a book and his cooler. He was down to just his khakis, vest, binder, and hat and was laid out in a deck chair to enjoy a nice, lazy day soaking up the sun.

Scout slowed down as he got closer, shading his eyes against the glare and squinting in a way that made Sniper quirk a small smile. Scout trotted over and leaned against the side of the van (jerking away when his skin touched the hot metal) and settled for slouching in what little shade the van gave as he looked down at Sniper.

“How are you out in this heat, man? I feel like I’m gonna fuckin’ melt!”

“‘M from Australia, mate.”

“Oh yeah.”

A pause stretched out as Scout seemed distracted by the heat and couldn’t figure out what to say and Sniper stretched out under the sun.

“What’re you doin’ out here anyway? ‘Side from slow cooking yourself.”

“Readin’.” Sniper patted the book that was rested face down on his chest. “And drinkin’.” He added with a smirk, bumping the cooler next to his seat. Scout perked up at the slosh of ice and glass and grinned.

“What say I join ya, slim? Got enough for two?”

“Reckon so.”

Scout dug in for a beer and after claiming two bottles looked around.

“Aw shit, there’s nowhere to sit.”

Sniper exhaled and put his book on the ground. He pulled himself up and stood, holding his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow before replacing it on his head.

“I’ll grab yah somethin’.”

He went back and rummaged through his van to find his second folding chair and brought it out and clapped it down on the other side of the cooler.

“Nice.” Scout flopped into it and pried one of the caps off of his beers. He took a glug, coughed, and wiped his mouth on the back of his taped up hand.

“Say, pally. What’re ya walkin’ like that for?” He gestured to Sniper’s barefeet with beer still in hand. Sniper glanced down, not sure what was being referred to. He inhaled to see he had been walking on the balls of his feet the whole time -- a habit he’d had since he was a kid, but he’d been able to stop. Usually. When he had shoes on.

Sniper fumbled back into his chair and fished a beer out of the cooler, not looking at Scout.

“Is that how you sneak to get around your hideouts?”

Sniper shrugged and tipped his hat in what he hoped look like a modest affirmative. Mostly he was just glad Scout had gave him a way out. But then again, the idea of a special stealth walk had Scout jittering in his seat. He and Scout ended up wiling away the day together, chatting and laughing. Scout ended up being pretty impressed by Sniper’s animal impressions, and it was nice to talk to the kid when he could really sit there and process all of what he was hearing rather than trying to parse the meaning in the middle of a hectic battle.

* * *

He enjoyed cleaning his gun. It was comforting, repetitive. It made him feel safe to be able to take his rifle apart piece by piece, clean every inch, and then put it back together again. He could get it ready quick as a whistle if needed, but he loved to draw out the process as long as possible. If he had the time, he dedicated one of their days off to just sitting down with it and pulling it apart, spreading it out, and going through the motions.

In some of the colder and wetter areas they got stationed in, he would have to stay inside the base (he had quarters and he used them, he just didn’t _like_ to) and this routine would get moved into the base. Usually this was confined to his room, though some started to question where he disappeared to for the whole day. He ended up moving out to the common area, which was a bit irksome but he didn’t altogether mind. Since he was already on the base, he might as well make some sort of effort to be around people.

One such day when he was already partway into the ritual, rag in hand, he was interrupted by someone abruptly shoving his gun parts to the side. He jumped but cracked his neck to the side to try and play it off. His fingers danced on the table quietly as he looked to see who had been so rude.

Spy. Of course.

“What.” Sniper asked. His voice was flat but hopefully Spy got the message. He probably did, Spy seemed to understand his way of speaking more than the others at times. (As irritating as it was to admit.)

Spy gave him an appraising look. What was he trying to figure out? Maybe he was trying to gauge how Sniper would react to whatever scheme he was concocting. Sniper just rubbed the oiled up rag between his fingers and waited for Spy to say something.

“Your things were in the way. You are taking up most of the table.”

“Could’a said somethin’,” Sniper grunted and Spy snorted.

“I find actions speak louder than words, _mon ami_.” Something sparked in Spy’s expression, and he leaned towards Sniper conspiratorially. “Speaking of.. I have a question for you.”

Sniper looked at him from the corner of his eye. That didn’t sound good. He mutely wiped the last of the gun oil off the piece he was cleaning and put it down with the rest. Then he turned in his seat to face Spy and waited for him to get to the point.

Spy’s eyes flicked around the room, taking inventory. Scout was flipping through some comic books that had just gotten shipped in, Medic was in and out of the room as he busied himself doing who-knows-what. He rested his gaze back on Sniper and continued in a kind (well, as kind as you get from a spy) voice.

“In the time we’ve worked together, I’ve noticed you have some.. Quirks.”

Sniper raised an eyebrow. They all had their quirks. What made his so outstanding to warrant a talk from Spy? Spy seemed to know what he was thinking and smirked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

“This is of course, none of my business. Except that it is, since my business is to know all of yours and everyone else’s business. But that is beside the point. My point here is that I have reached a conclusion about you. And I would like to share it with you since it seems you may not be aware of it. In the sense that I am, at least.”

Sniper didn’t get it. Spy sucked in a lungful of flavored smoke and blew it out towards the ground and then leaned in towards Sniper.

“My conclusion, _mon ami_ , is that you are autistic.”

Sniper stared at him, frozen in place. He felt something snake in his gut and twist around to squeeze tight on his throat and in his chest. He swallowed and readjusted his glasses, not looking at Spy.

“What d’ya mean by that.”

“I could sit here and list evidence that brought me to this conclusion, but you and I both know it would be a waste of time.”

Sniper was silent. Spy was right, of course. He always was and it was pretty infuriating. Sniper licked his dry lips and turned away. He picked up the next piece of his gun that needed cleaning and set to work.

“Is that all?”

“Just know that if you struggle with something you can always come to me, _tireur_. I have had close experience with such things.” With that said, Spy rose, nodded, and left Sniper to his thoughts.

* * *

He had to confess he did knit. Just a little. Just to make some scarves and sweaters for the colder stations they went to. His mother had taught him when he was little and he had kept up the habit. It was useful and relaxing, good to lay back and work the needles and be surrounded by the quiet click of the needles and soft yarn and repetitive motions leading to an observable accomplishment. He could also sew and crochet, which came in handy as well.

He didn’t like to advertise his skills though. They’d been taught to a little girl that wasn’t him anymore, and the association put it in his head that if people found out about his hobby they would make the connection and _know_.

Secrets weren’t something easily kept in such close quarters, though. He had some breathing space since he had the van but it had to come out eventually (even if Sniper didn’t like to believe so).

Scout ended up stumbling on him knitting a new scarf in his quarters at the base during the winter, and refused to let it go unaddressed. The rest of the team knew by the end of the day, and all Sniper’s careful deflections in the past of where he had got his knitwear proved futile. They were surprisingly gracious about it though, he only had to endure a couple comments disparaging his masculinity and otherwise it seemed everyone was actually _interested_.

He ended up making scarves for the whole team (he grumbled whenever they requested something but he really did enjoy making them) which brought their opinion of him higher than Sniper had ever thought it would go (though he’d figured he would always be somewhere between “annoyingly quiet” and “weird loner”).

He even ended up making some that the other mercs then packaged and shipped off to gift to their families and friends since there wasn’t much to buy in Teufort to send home. He took to curling up in the corner of one of the common room couches with his yarn and needles and working away in the comforting presence of the others. They all kept the noise to a dull roar whenever he was around and whether it was purposeful or not, Sniper appreciated it.

The others usually let him keep to himself as he worked, occasionally roping him into debates for another opinion and keeping conversations open for him to join if he felt like it. Then one day Scout flopped down next to him and leaned into his space to check out his latest project.

“How’d ya even learn to do this, Snipes?”

“M’mum taught me as a kid.”

“Damn. I wish my mom had passed on some cool skill to me. All she ever taught me was how to clean up.”

“Wouldn’t know that to look at ya!” Demo laughed from a nearby chair. Scout huffed angrily and swatted his knee.

“Whatever, Dem. Hey Snipes, can ya teach me how to do that?”

There was a brief silence as Sniper raised his eyebrows in surprise. He watched his own hands work the needles and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“..Sure, kid.”

“Hell yeah,” Scout enthused, and pulled his legs up to sit cross-legged on the couch facing Sniper. Sniper rearranged himself so Scout could see what his hands were doing and started to narrate.

“Well, first of all yah need the needles and thread. We’ll have to get you some needles if yer really gonna want to do this, but for now we can probably just grab a couple of pencils or somethin’.

“To start off, you make a slip knot with the yarn and put the needle through -- I can show yah better once I start somethin’ brand new, but I’m not gonna restart this since I’m already halfway through -- then you cast on, which is where you thread it around your finger an’ the needle a special way a bunch of times.

“After you’ve got the row, you make your first real row by doing the threading thing but with another needle. And then you just keep doing it again and again until you’ve knitted all you want’a. And after that all, you have to cast off which ties it all up so it doesn’t get unraveled and mess up all your hard work.

“Crocheting is pretty similar, ‘cept you only use one needle instead of two and it’s got a hook so you can get a handle on it better. And the threading works a bit differently. I tried crochetin’ for a while but I couldn’t get into it and then my Mum got me started on knitting and I ate it up. When you start out, you’ll prob’ly make the stitches too tight but that’s fine -- as you do it more you’ll be able to gauge it better how much to thread and pull.

“It’s real nice to do, simple and keeps your hands busy. Pretty easy to figure out once you’ve got the threading down, and then it’s just repetition and time. And it can get a li’l tricky when you use different yarn types ‘cause it can be harder to grip. I tried usin’ some of those fuzzy yarns but it was too much of a hassle and I ended up havin’ to throw it all out.

“My mum always talked about usin’ yarn from our own sheep which I was all over the idea of, but she never got around to gettin’ a spinnin’ wheel for it. She didn’t seem much for the hassle of cleanin’ and cardin’ and rovin’ and dyin’ it all, either. Too bad, though. I always wanted to try my hand at makin’ some but by the time I could’a bought myself a spinning wheel I was already moved out. Not gonna ask my dad to let me back on the ranch just to steal all the wool and then split.

“If you wanna start though, I can prob’ly pick up some plastic needles when I next go into Teufort. I pick up all my yarn and things from there. I’ve got some metal and wooden needles you might be able to use, but I want to keep both of ‘em ‘cause I like to switch between them. The metal ones make a nice clickin’ sound as you work, but the wooden ones feel nicer in the hands. Also the wooden ones don’t wear down the way metal ones do.

“Plastic’ll be fine for you, since yer just beginning. They’re not super great but once you get better at it I’ll let you try out my needles to see what type yah wanna get. I love the click sound, but I know my mum couldn’t stand it. Always made me sit outside if I wanted to use ‘em, said she could hear my knittin’ from the other side of the house.” He chuckled at the memory.

As he’d talked, he’d kept on knitting languorously. He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked over to see Spy with a cigarette and an amused expression.

“I believe that’s the most any of us have heard from you in all the time we’ve worked together, _tireur_.” He took a drag as Sniper fiddled with the knitting needles self-consciously. He’d talked too much, now everyone would regret being friendly with him. He continued with the scarf he had in progress and didn’t look up. Scout’s hands came into view when the kid patted his knee.

“Nah man, I love it. It’s cool seein’ ya all excited about somethin’.”

“ _Oui_ , and it’s not nearly as much as Scout has been known to talk.”

“Hey!”

Sniper relaxed at the familiar bickering. He was glad to be with people who didn’t mind his ways.


End file.
